


Only Son of the Falling Snow

by elysiumwaits



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Sterek, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cabin Fic, Catharsis, Derek Hale is Good at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Healing, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Winter, here is 2k words of stiles having feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: When it’s all said and done, Stiles ends up in the old Hale cabin in northern Washington.Derek is waiting for him.--“I…” Stiles starts, and then stops again because he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. There’s a hundred things he could say, starting with, “I’m sorry for showing up without warning you first,” and ending with, “I don’t know why you sent me the key but I’m really fucking glad you did.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 29
Kudos: 227
Collections: 12 Days of Sterek





	Only Son of the Falling Snow

**Author's Note:**

> I meant for this to be longer and then the plot got really long, so I went ahead and cut this off. I’m planning, at the moment, to revisit and possibly make it a series, but I kind of like it in the moment. I just think really going into Stiles’ healing will be a Process.
> 
> Fun fact: the working title for this was “The Sterek Sad Cabin.”
> 
> Title from “Only Son of the Falling Snow” by Bear’s Den - I’m not usually a fan of using song titles for fic titles, I prefer to use lyrics, but this one just fit. It’s a very melancholy winter song, I love it.
> 
> _"Where do you go wandering?  
>  Where do you go?  
> Where do you go wandering?"  
> Well I, I am the only son  
> Of the falling snow."_

The envelope comes in September. Stiles’ name and address are scrawled across the front of it in a familiar, neat hand, and there’s a Washington postmark next to a poinsettia forever stamp. He drops the rest of the mail onto the table and holds it for a minute, stares at the letters and wonders what it says about him that he recognizes the handwriting even though there’s no return address. Wonders what it says about him that this is the first thing to hold his interest in days. That this is the closest thing to an actual emotion he’s had in a while that wasn’t fear or guilt or sadness. Instead, it’s curiosity that he feels. Hope.

He opens it carefully, pulls the folded paper out. It’s short, which makes Stiles smile, a quick upturn before it’s gone again like it was never there. Derek’s a man of few words, even when he doesn’t have to actually speak them.

It’s an address in Washington that takes up most of the page, followed by the words, “ _ Hale vacation cabin. _ ” A dark mark like Derek’s scratched out a short word, and then, “ _ It’s here if you need it _ .  _ \- D.H. _ ”

The envelope is heavy, and when Stiles turns it over, a key falls into his hand.

Stiles beats the snow by a day.

Well, kind of. There’s a dusting when he pulls up and parks the Jeep. It’s a fine white powder on the roof of the cabin, on the cold ground, and on the winter skeletons of deciduous trees and evergreens both. He beats the big snow, though, the one that he’s actually kind of counting on in that way where hard decisions are easier to make if they’re made for you. It’s simple really - he can’t leave, disappear into the anonymity of the lower 48, and avoid everything he’s ever done or that’s ever been done to him if a big snowstorm comes and shuts the road down for a week or two while he just so happens to be visiting a snowy cabin in northern Washington. 

It’s like talking himself out of something he hasn’t actually decided on doing yet. Not that he’s decided on this either.

Stiles doesn’t actually get out of the Jeep for a long time, just chews on his lip and studies the cabin while the heat runs. The word “idyllic” crosses his mind - cozy little log cabin out in the middle of nowhere, smoke coming out of the chimney, and surrounded by winter like the November picture in a free calendar on the bulletin board of a sheriff’s station. It’s not quite “picturesque” yet, but Stiles thinks that it will be when the snow really comes. Needs a Christmas tree in the window to really drive home that whole winter vacation cabin fantasy, he thinks, for the calendar to really sell the December image.

He knows he’s stalling, sitting and staring instead of working up the courage to knock on the door. It’s the anxiety - for all of Stiles’ twitching and fidgeting, he’d sit in the same place forever if it meant he never had to face anything like rejection. What if he gets to the door and the key doesn’t work?

He kind of feels like he’s intruding. Maybe the letter and the key were more of a goodwill gesture than an actual invitation. Stiles can feel both of them burning a hole in his pocket as he debates putting the Jeep into reverse and just… driving away again. Disappearing like he was never there, letting the snow cover the tire tracks. It’s tempting, he’ll admit in the privacy of his own mind, and he’s certainly never had a good relationship with impulses and avoidance. The hesitation he feels comes from the two wrapped presents in the duffle bag in the front seat, one in green and red, and the other in brightly colored balloons.

It’s December 20th, and by all rights, Stiles should be in Beacon Hills. He should be helping his dad decorate a Christmas tree, should be shopping for the perfect gift for Scott or Lydia or Malia or anyone else in the pack. He should be celebrating his winter freedom from high school with his friends. 

But so should Allison. So should Erica and Boyd. So should Isaac. 

And Stiles is sitting in his Jeep in front of a remote cabin in Washington. So, as far as holidays go, it’s not their best.

He sits for a little while longer. He just can’t quite work up whatever it is he needs to grab his duffle bag and waltz in, but he can’t work up whatever it is he needs to just drive away either. The decision, when it’s made, doesn’t even come from him - it comes from how the front door opens, and how a familiar figure stands in the doorway, watching Stiles just as Stiles is watching him.

Hard decisions are easier to make if they’re made for you.

Stiles turns off the engine and pulls the key out of the ignition. He tries to pretend his hands aren’t shaking as he grabs the haphazardly packed bag with the presents. He’d love to chalk the trembling up to too much caffeine and too little sleep, which are definitely factors, but he tries not to lie to himself as much these days. It’s easier than he thought it would be to step out and shoulder his duffle, to follow the snow-dusted walkway up to the cabin, to climb the wooden stairs onto the porch, to stand in front of Derek Hale.

“I…” Stiles starts, and then stops again because he’s not sure how to finish the sentence. There’s a hundred things he could say, starting with, “ _ I’m sorry for showing up without warning you first _ ,” and ending with, “ _ I don’t know why you sent me the key but I’m really fucking glad you did. _ ”

Derek waits for a second, like he’s seeing if Stiles is going to continue. When Stiles can’t force any words out, Derek just nods and steps to the side, making the invitation as clear as he possibly can. Stiles feels so fucking  _ grateful _ in that moment, and stepping into the cabin is just as surprisingly simple as walking up to it from the Jeep had been. 

Stiles makes it two steps inside, wipes his shoes on the mat. He hears Derek close the door behind him as he walks into the living room and stands in the middle, looks around. It’s neat, rustic, cozy. There’s a fire burning in the stove behind the grate, a bookshelf packed full against a far wall, overstuffed furniture in warm reds with plush blankets thrown over the arms. It’s peaceful. 

Fuck, it’s  _ peaceful _ , this is Derek’s  _ sanctuary _ . Stiles shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be barging in to invade this quiet little hideaway. Derek has been through  _ so much _ , and here’s Stiles, coming in to fuck up the last little pocket of safety and calm that Derek has carved out for himself. 

Stiles turns, intends to head back out the door to his Jeep, intends to drive far away from Derek and everything else that he loves so he can’t hurt them anymore. He doesn’t get far at all, just a single step back towards the small foyer before Derek’s there.

He stops. Can’t help it, can’t help but take in the way that Derek looks  _ good _ , wrapped up in a warm sweater and a pair of jeans, standing in his peaceful, isolated little cabin.

Stiles shouldn’t be here, he can’t be here to fuck this up.

“Stiles.” Derek sounds calming, hints of concern. “It’s okay.”

He tugs at the bag on Stiles’ shoulder, but Stiles tightens his grip. “I’m sorry,” Stiles chokes out, squeezes his eyes shut tight to try and keep back the sudden rush of tears. It’s overwhelming, a mix of guilt and anxiety and a vast abyss of sadness, all built up over years of lies and betrayals and blood, just finally starting to spill over. “I shouldn’t - I’ll go, I’m sorry.”

Derek doesn’t release the strap of the bag. Instead, he uses it to drag Stiles forward with a sharp motion, into a sudden, strong embrace. Stiles stiffens for a moment, breath catching in his throat, before he buckles, crumples slow like a marionette whose strings are being cut one by one, lets the sob that’s been sitting in his chest for years finally erupt. The duffle falls from his shoulder as Stiles collapses, lets Derek catch his weight as they both sink to their knees on the cabin floor. 

The dam that Stiles has carefully constructed with duct tape, prayers, and white-knuckled desperation breaks. Just like that, he’s crying and clutching at the soft material of Derek’s dark sweater, gripping hard enough to stop the shaking and turn his knuckles white. He can’t see through the tears that well up and escape, but he feels Derek’s hand come up to cradle the back of his head, big fingers soft in his hair. He guides Stiles’ face down, firm but gentle, until he’s got it pressed to Derek’s neck, tears soaking into the wool of his sweater.

It’s not the first time that someone has hugged him since the Nogitsune. Not the first since Allison, or since Boyd, Erica, Gerard, the body in the woods. Plenty of people have hugged him - his father, desperate and angry and worried, and Scott, mourning and afraid. Lydia. Even Isaac, before he left. He’s been held through panic attacks, rocked through nightmares. But every single one of those embraces came from someone that Stiles is usually trying to protect - Lydia, Scott, his father, Melissa, Isaac, Kira, Malia.

But this is the first time in a long time that Stiles has felt safe. Derek doesn’t need Stiles to protect him, to save him from something. Derek does the protecting, usually right alongside Stiles. 

And so Stiles clings and cries, and lets Derek hold him while he falls apart. 

When he eventually settles into quiet tears instead of deep sobs, Stiles doesn’t know how much time has passed. He feels like he’s just had some kind of out of body experience, like he’s coming back to the present from watching it through the other side of a foggy window. He knows that feeling, the dissociation that comes with the kind of crying borne of true grief. He’s tired, he’s shaky, his head hurts, but he feels  _ better _ , feels like he’s just released the pressure a little bit and staved off an explosion. 

It’s a little while later when he finally feels like he might stop crying, barring a stiff breeze or the drop of a hat. Stiles lifts his face from Derek’s shoulder, reluctantly gives up his hold on Derek’s sweater, and pulls away. The long sleeves of his trusty plaid flannel work just as well as a makeshift tissue as they always have, and it’s only after Stiles has wiped away the remnants of his breakdown from his face that he realizes Derek’s still got a loose grip on the fabric of his shirt. 

“I’m okay.” Stiles’ voice is thick in the aftermath, still watery, and he clears his throat. He gets a disbelieving eyebrow in response, and amends his statement. “Alright, fine. Maybe I’m not exactly  _ okay _ , but I’m better than I was five minutes ago.”

“Twenty minutes.”

Which, yeah, okay. That makes sense - Stiles doesn’t have the best relationship with time passing, didn’t thanks to the ADHD to begin with and the whole Nogitsune thing certainly didn’t help. Time passing doesn’t really compute to him very often, unless there is very suddenly not enough or too much of it - like if he’s got a test, or a deadline, or if someone is being held hostage for a ransom demand of some kind.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, comes back to himself a little. “I’m better than I was twenty minutes ago, then.”

Derek is still watching him, still holding onto the fabric of his shirt. It should be uncomfortable, but it isn’t. Instead, it feels like it does when Derek’s eyes have swept over him to look for injuries, only this time, there aren’t any physical ones for him to find. Stiles watches Derek back and waits, understands the need to reassure yourself that someone is safe and whole and unharmed. 

“Don’t leave,” Derek finally says. 

It’s not what Stiles was expecting. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. 

His mouth opens. Nothing comes, so Stiles closes it again. There are too many possible responses bouncing through his mind for him to even think about settling on one, ranging from nonchalant and sarcastic to unnecessarily sad to a heartfelt confession of all the feelings that Stiles has held onto for a long time. None of them are exactly right.

But then, he thinks, maybe it was what Stiles was hoping, not necessarily expecting. Maybe Derek scratched out the word “I’m” before he wrote “It’s” in the letter, maybe he started to write “I’m here if you need me” before he changed his mind. 

Derek is waiting, though, so Stiles finally manages to say something. “I can’t leave,” is what comes out. “There’s a storm coming. I was trying to beat it, but I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to make it back down the road without, like, ending up ass-first in a pile of snow, so I really  _ can’t _ leave. You’re kind of stuck with me, at least for a week or so.” 

A smile turns up the corners Derek’s mouth, and Stiles watches his eyes smile with it. He’s always so quiet with his happiness, when it comes, and Stiles has often thought he’d like to see more of it. If Derek will let him.

He doesn’t say, “ _ I’ll stay for as long as you let me _ .” He doesn’t say, “ _ Please let me stay forever _ .”

“Then let’s get you settled,” Derek says, and it sounds to Stiles like relief, and it sounds like healing, and it sounds like safety.


End file.
